


Some Things Never Sleep

by Hatterized



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, loss of a child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 18:30:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatterized/pseuds/Hatterized
Summary: The war is over, and Michonne and Rick are forced to confront their grief surrounding Carl's death.





	Some Things Never Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title comes from [Queen of Peace by Florence + the Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRz-SUj_mK0), a great 'n angsty postwar Richonne song.

It’s after the war that Rick finally breaks down. Michonne watches helplessly as his grief-addled mind finally collapses in on itself, nothing more to distract him from the loss.

The war gave him that, at least. It kept him busy every second of the day, kept him from feeling it completely, even though it made his steps heavier and his eyes permanently red-rimmed and hollow. But now, back in Alexandria with Carl’s empty bedroom across the hall, his absence is a gaping socket, ragged and ugly and messy.

She finds him the first time in the early evening, just before twilight has graced the town. She walks past the graveyard, her eyes morbidly drawn to it- they always seem to be these days- and she sees him, curled in on himself on top of Carl’s grave, body wracked with bone-deep sobs.

She almost leaves him be- not out of callousness, because her heart breaks a little more every time she sees him so shattered like this- but because she thinks that maybe he needs it, this time with just himself and his grief.

She can’t do it, though. Her feet stick in place when she goes to leave and then they move toward him before she can decide to turn away. She can’t just let him lie there alone and broken in the dirt.

So she goes to him, kneels beside him, then sinks down completely and pulls the man into her lap best she can. It’s awkward- he’s much larger than her, dead weight like his grief is a physical burden he bears, and she only gets half of him in her arms, his forehead resting against her stomach.

He clings to her, his arms around her waist, a drowning man grasping at a life-raft.

The tears don’t let up, not for a long time, and she finds herself folding over him, holding him close, her own tears seeping into his skin like fallen rain.

Sometimes he nearly sleepwalks there. He’s not quite fully asleep, simply out of his mind with sorrow, and Rick winds up on Carl’s grave like his body is physically drawn to it by some otherworldly force, like he can’t help but try to get as close as possible.

They trade off on who takes it worse some days. There are evenings where Michonne goes looking for Rick and finds him curled on the floor next to Judith’s crib, their daughter soundly asleep and blissfully unaware of her father beside her, clutching with cold hands at the hat that now sits atop her dresser, a reminder of a brother she’ll only remember from photos and stories passed down to her like carefully cherished relics.

When that happens, she covers his icicle fingers with her own until the joints melt and he’s able to let go.

Some days Rick passes by Carl’s bedroom and the door is a gaping maw that Michonne has crawled inside in hopes that the memories will digest her. She tries to read the comics they used to share, tries to carry on the tradition, but she ends up making the thin, glossy pages wrinkle with the dampness of tears.

When that happens, Rick is stronger than he knew he still could be, and he tucks the comics back on their shelves- Carl was so careful with them for a teenager. He helps her to her feet, leads her out of the belly of the beast.

Some days, neither of them can carry themselves or the other, and they lay on the boy’s floor together, wondering if their grief is tainting the small, sacred space. Can his touch, his presence be driven away by their sorrow?

* * *

It isn’t the Michonne’s never seen him cry before. No, Rick has always been a man who, despite his reserved nature, wears his heart on his sleeve. She’s seen him cry many times before- for Glenn, Abraham, Beth, Tyreese, Sasha. For Judith once or twice when they’d been out on the road together and he’d thought she had died at the prison, always after Carl had fallen asleep. She’s seen him reduced to a broken, sobbing mess that one horrible morning in the woods when Negan held him on his knees. He’s cried for Carl before, when he’d lost his eye.

She’s seen him cry tears of happiness, too. When Judith took her first steps, said her first word- _dada_. He’d gotten misty-eyed when they’d reunited with Carol after escaping Terminus, then again when they discovered that Judith was alive and well. He’d wept when Carl had finally woken up after he’d been shot, so relieved that his son hadn’t been lost like so many others they’d known and loved.

It’s just that she’s never seen him cry this much. She swears that sometimes he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Quiet tears run down his cheeks like he’s a broken faucet. When she goes to wipe them away, he seems surprised to see her fingers come away wet.

* * *

 

There are days when he's so _quiet_ , and that unsettles her more than the tears. He barely speaks, keeps to himself, isolated and busying himself in the gardens. He makes sure to stay busy, the same way he did during the war. It's how he has to cope on some days when he's so exhausted by his grief that he can no longer face it. He simply shuts everything and everyone out and deals with the pain by avoiding it altogether. As if that's possible. 

Those days are frustrating. 

Carol comes by during a particularly bad day when Rick has managed to slip out of bed before the break of dawn and has only given one-word answers as he sweats himself dry tending to the sorghum crop. 

When Michonne tells her how he's been coping, her eyes are sad and understanding. Carol carries her pain with such dignity sometimes it's hard to remember that she once had a daughter of her own. 

"He's like that sometimes. But you already knew that." They sit on the porch, Judith dozing on Carol's lap. "After Shane...that's how he was for a long time. Lori and I were close. Communication's always been hard for him, even before the world turned into this. Sometimes it helps to push, sometimes it makes things worse." She reaches across the space between them, squeezes Michonne's hand. "You two are in this together. He knows that. It may take him some time, but he'll get there." She cocks her head, careful not to disturb Judith. "How are _you?_ "

Michonne's throat gets thick, and she exhales in a long, quaking breath. "I don't know. With Andre...with him, I just shut down." She casts a glance out to Rick. "So I get what he's doing. But I can't do that again. I lost myself the first time, and it took so long for me to come back completely. I don't want to be like that again. I don't want _him_ to be like that."

"You won't be. Either of you." Carol says it with such conviction that Michonne nearly laughs. 

"How do you know?"

There's a wistful look in Carol's pale blue eyes, the smile on her face dipped in melancholy. "Because you have each other."

Carol goes to talk to Rick before she leaves. Michonne gives them their privacy, not wanting to intrude, and when Carol leaves, Rick comes home with an apology in his eyes and on his tongue. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, drawing her close. 

"You don't have to be," she replies gently. She said the same thing before, at the Hilltop, when Rick had been withdrawn and quiet. She doesn't want him to be sorry- she just wants him to be okay. 

Just like at the Hilltop, he speaks his next words with all the conviction and strength he has in him. "I love you."

Her hands circle his waist, and he leans into her, warm and comforting. "I love you, too." And then- "Carol wasn't too hard on you, was she?"

She feels him shake his head. "No. Wasn't hard on me at all. She understands. It was good, talkin' to her about- about this." He presses a kiss to her shoulder, and warmth spreads through her. "She didn't say anything I didn't need to hear."

* * *

Rick finds Michonne on the porch one morning, having slipped from their shared bed after a fitful night of unrest. Knees tucked to her chest, one palm flat against the pale wood where two other handprints lie.

The thing about Rick is that he sometimes doesn’t know the right words to say, but he always knows just what to do for her. Silently, he squeezes her shoulder and retreats into the house. Somehow, without him saying a word, she knows he’s coming back.

A few minutes later, he returns with two mugs of coffee- black for him, a little sugar for her. He sinks onto the porch beside her, places the palm that isn’t cradling his coffee next to hers.

They sip in a solemn kind of quiet. Unable to look at the handprints any longer, she stares at Rick’s mug. It’s forest green and reads _Bigfoot Lives_ \- a joke gift from her, because she used to tease him, saying he looked like a Sasquatch when they were on the road his beard and hair were at their longest. He hasn’t shaved in weeks, and his beard is beginning to rival the one from before Alexandria, albeit much greyer now. It hasn’t even been a year, but the circumstances have aged them all.

“We used to have somethin’ like this back at home, before,” Rick murmurs, eyes trained on the blue paint where his children’s handprints have been immortalized. “I think it was a Mother’s Day project Carl did in kindergarten. It was on a kitchen tile or somethin’ like that. His hand was so small then that his fingers didn’t reach the edges.”

She can’t help the little sob that rises in her chest. In an instant, Rick’s hand is on hers, strong and steady, which she knows isn’t how he feels. It only makes her love him more.

“It was blue, too. Lori loved it. Kept it up on the kitchen windowsill next to some photos.” His voice is getting thicker. “It’s- it’s good that he thought to do somethin’ like that. With Judith. I wouldn’t have remembered.”

When she speaks, her voice seems cracked, ragged, but she needs to get the words out.

“I had one of Andre’s hand. A little- little plaster mold. A friend made it for me when he was about six months old.”

It’s gone now, lost to time and circumstance in her old home in Georgia, hundreds of miles away.

Rick has never, never pressed her to talk more about Andre than she’s comfortable with. Maybe it’s because he’s lost family, too, but he seems to sense when enough is enough. He knows it hurts to bring him up.

“What was he like?”

Such an innocent question, and she doesn’t have an answer. Not just one.

“He…” she trails off, tracing the outline of Carl’s handprint with her fingertip. Carl, who was her second son. Carl, who was the first person she’d told about Andre. She remembers the day she did, the house they were scavenging in, the boy’s curious but respectful questions. “He thought I was funny,” she finally says.

* * *

Rick had always been always a giving lover, ever since the beginning. Now, though, he shies away from any of her touches below his waist. It’s not for lack of wanting, either- she can tell he wants it so badly. No, it’s because he’s ashamed, so anxious that it will happen again. He’d been so embarrassed the first time, turning away in her arms and withdrawing into himself. _Blaming_ himself, like it was somehow an unreasonable shortcoming.

Their sex life, naturally, has fallen off a little.

The first time they tried, it had been a couple weeks after the war ended, a couple weeks after Carl.

They’d been in bed together, finally back home in Alexandria. They’d gotten a new mattress, remade their nest, laid down together, and she’d drawn him into her arms and kissed him like they’d done so many times before.

Lately, Rick always broke things off before their kisses could turn heated, but this time, he lingered, lit a fire in her belly with that same ease that he always had.

It happened fast, like they were terrified of losing the moment. One minute they were kissing, and the next, Rick had rolled on top of her, and she had shed both their shirts and he was kissing down her neck and unhooking her bra, soft beard stubble tickling her chest. They took things slower after that, but it was when she reached down to cup him between his thighs that she realized-

“You’re not…” She cocked her head at him, worried, frowning. “Do you not want to…?”

She regretted pointing it out immediately, because Rick looked humiliated, shamed, and pulled away, murmuring soft apologies with his head down.

“Sorry- sorry, I…it’s not you, it’s not you, I just…fuck. I’m sorry. I can-”

“Rick,” she whispered, trying to bring him back to her, to reassure him that it was okay, but he was already closing himself off. “It’s okay, baby.”

The grief had rendered him impotent, and it was just more shame for him to carry.

Every time they try now, she can tell he’s not getting there and he tries to ignore it by calling all the attention onto her pleasure, her needs.

He kisses down her body, and his touch isn’t empty, his eyes aren’t hollow- he _wants_. He loves giving her what she needs, so there’s never any question of her taking advantage. His eyes, crystal clear blue sparkling up at her from where he lingers between her thighs, plead, _let me do this for you, let me do something right._

It breaks her hearts little that he thinks that he owes her anything at all.

He’s good at what he does, his fingers and mouth skilled. Without fail, he makes her come, bringing her a few minutes of bliss on the nights that she needs it. Sometimes she feels guilty that he’s not getting anything out of it, but he’s always quick to reassure her.

“Just want to make you feel good,” he whispers into her skin. “I _like_ makin’ you feel good.”

His beard is growing longer, which she’d usually protest, but it’s reached a length where it’s begun to feel good between her thighs. And more importantly, he seems to like it. He keeps it groomed and trimmed, and considering he went through a period where he was forgetting to shower, she counts it as a win.

* * *

He’s always the one who goes down to check on Negan. He insists on it, telling her over and over again that _he’s my responsibility, nobody else should have to deal with him, it was my choice to keep him here. I don’t want to make anyone else deal with him._

She’s offered to switch out with him- he always comes back looking so weary, like just being in the man’s presence for the two minutes it took to give him food and dump out his bucket is draining the life from him. It hasn’t been long, and the man is downright vicious, a caged dog rabid with anger and raising its hackles at whoever offered it scraps.

Siddiq had been glad to see him leave the infirmary. Negan’s pride had taken far more damage than his throat, and that made him, in Siddiq’s words, “a complete and total jackass, if you’ll excuse my language.”

Michonne quite likes Siddiq.

But she worries about Rick, who’s beginning to concern her with his insistence that he doesn’t want her around Negan, doesn’t want _anyone_ around Negan but himself.

She follows him quietly one evening when he delivers Negan’s dinner, lingering unseen at the top of the stairs so she can listen in. It strikes her suddenly that maybe Rick _likes_ talking to him- that Negan is a captive audience and maybe Rick needs someone to vent to. The thought is enough to make her turn to leave- she has no issue with that, and if it’s helping Rick relieve some of his grief, she’s glad for Negan’s presence- but then she catches Negan’s words, cruel and sharp as barbed wire.

“How’s it feel to be the reason your kid’s dead, Rick? Huh? Aw, you not talkin’ tonight? You know, I’m startin’ to think that you like hearing this shit. Do you like it, Rick? I bet nobody else out there tells you the truth. That it was your fucking fault. Bet they all say there’s nothing you could have done, but you know that’s not true, don’t you? So you keep comin’ to me. I’m your fucking punishment for getting Carl killed.”

She sees _red_.

She’s got one foot on the steps, ready to charge into the room and use every bit of righteous indignation she has to instill the fear of god in that sorry man’s heart, but then Rick’s footsteps, heavy and familiar, resound up the stairs. They see each other a moment later, and nothing is hidden anymore. Not the fury on her face or the defeated tears in his eyes.

It’s only for Rick’s sake that she manages not to speak until they’re back home where no one else can hear.

“I’m not going to let him talk to you like that, Rick. I don’t want to think about why you’re letting him get away with it, but I’m not going to sit back and let you keep going there every day and have him fill your head with lies like that.”

“They’re not- they’re not lies, though-”

Her eyes flash. “Like _hell_ they’re not, Rick. Everything he says is him lashing out. It’s the only weapon he has left, and you’re just letting him use it.” There’s so much shame on his face, and it makes her crumple and sink into the couch beside him to pull the man into her arms. “He did the same thing to Siddiq when he was in the infirmary,” she whispers, stroking through his long hair. “It’s why I wanted him out of there as soon as possible. Whoever he’s around is going to be on the receiving end of the shit he says, and nobody deserves that. _Nobody_.” She shivers when one of Rick’s hands, strong and warm, slides up her arm and pulls her closer.

“I should have been here,” Rick whispers into her neck. She can feel the dampness of tears soaking into her skin. “Keep thinkin’- thinkin’ that if I’d just let Siddiq come with us the first time- if I’d been here- maybe…”

She buries her face into his hair, breathes him in. “You couldn’t have known. _Nobody_ could have known.”

“I should’ve- he should’ve been with me. I should’ve been watchin’ him-”

That makes Michonne snort with laughter through her tears. “When has Carl _ever_ been able to be watched? How many times did he sneak out with Enid? I seem to recall you telling me he used to do the same thing at the farm. He got himself into trouble at the prison. That boy was always going to go out there on his own, Rick. You and I both know there wasn’t any keeping him in the house.”

Rick makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a laugh, and it makes her ache all the way down to her bones. “When we were- were out on our own. In that house you found us in after the prison. He snuck out while I was unconscious. When I woke up, you know what he told me?” He shakes his head, and she can feel him smile. “That he’d found a hundred and twelve ounces of chocolate pudding. And he’d eaten the whole thing. I don’t know how he wasn’t pukin’ it up for the next two days.”

Michonne shakes with laughter, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. “Remember that time we went to get the crib for Judith?”

Rick nods. “Yeah. And the- the photo.”

“He tried to give me the slip. Wanted to get it _on his own_. I turned my back for two seconds to take out a walker, and he was already around the corner.” She pauses, realizing this may not give the best impression of her. “I caught up to him, though.”

Rick chuckles weakly and kisses the side of her neck. “Thank you.”

* * *

The next day, she’s taking the steps to Negan’s cell two at a time, a tray of beans and rice and an apple in her hands.

Negan’s gleeful face falls for a moment when he sees her.

“Not that I mind havin’ someone new to look at, but where the fuck is Rick? Best part of my day is seein’ that mopey asshole.” He’s sitting with his arms behind his head and his legs stretched out leisurely in front of him, all faux bravado. “What’s on the menu, sweetheart? Smells like-”

The clatter of the metal tray against the concrete floor cuts him off, and an indignant look crosses his face. “What the _fuck_? I know you good, _righteous_ folks aren’t about to start starvin’ me out.” He spits the words laden with sarcasm and venom, but his eyes betray him by following the way Michonne snatches up the apple off the tray and takes a bite. She pulls up a metal folding chair from the corner of the room and takes a seat.

“We’ve been more than accommodating here,” Michonne begins, leaning back in her chair. “Especially considering how we hear you used to treat your prisoners. You’ve got clothes. A bed. Light. Food fit for humans. No shitty music playing. Looks like Rick was even generous enough to loan you a couple books.” She gestures to a dog-eared paperback copy of Crime and Punishment beside Negan’s cot. “We let you live. We let all of your people, even the ones that fought against us, live. In fact, they’re becoming valuable, contributing members of our society. _Equal_ members, like everyone else.” She takes another juicy bite out of the apple. “Which I _know_ is not what we were going to get if you won. So tell me- why the fucking attitude?”

She doesn’t curse often, but she figures throwing Negan’s favorite word back at him may have a nice effect. She isn’t wrong.

“You really expect me to _thank_ you for this shit?” Negan snaps. His blasé façade has fallen- shoulders squared up and tense, eyes narrowed, fists clenching. “Gee, what a goddamned fucking honor it is to sit here and sit in a fucking bucket doing jack shit all day-”

“Would you rather us have killed you?” Michonne asks. “Let you bleed out after Rick slit your throat? Let you turn? Or put a bullet in your brain and let you rot under a tree?” His face twists into a grimace. “Well?”

“Fuck you.”

The apple hits the floor, juice splattering and the flesh bruising and mingling with the dust and dirt there. She strides forward until she’s right up against the bars and able to look the cornered animal in the eye. “Oh no, Negan. Fuck _you_.” She taps one slim finger against the metal bars. “I think we’ve been a little too lenient with you, you know that? Letting you say whatever you want in here.”

Now Negan’s smirk is back- he knows exactly what she’s talking about. “What goes on between me and Rick is none of your goddamned business, is it? He’s not telling me to shove it, so I don’t know why the fuck you care.”

“I _care_ ,” Michonne intoned, “because I care about him. Maybe you can’t possibly fathom that- people caring about each other with no other motive. But I need you to know a few things. First, you have no right to speak about Carl. _Ever_. Not to me, not to Rick, not to anyone. You spent one afternoon with him. You were seconds away from killing him in front of his father. You have no place to mourn him, and you have no place to speak about him to people who loved him and knew him.”

Negan opens his mouth to speak, and Michonne continues louder.

“ _Second_ , Rick was that boy’s father for all fourteen years for his life. He knows him better than anyone ever will. He has done more for him than you could ever imagine. I’ve seen him beaten half to death and still trying to protect that boy with everything in him. I’ve seen him sink his teeth into a grown man’s throat and tear it out to keep them from touching him. I’ve seen him sitting at Carl’s bedside holding his hand when he lost his eye, not leaving until he woke up. _You_ do not get to say what kind of father Rick was. You do not get to blame him for his son’s death.” She cocks her head at him, assessing. “You don’t have children.” It’s not a question- she already knows.

“No,” Negan spits.

“I can tell,” she replies.

It’s silent for a long moment, and then, because Negan can’t stand to be silent- “You gonna give me my fucking food or not?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me that you understand.” She crosses her arms. “You don’t talk to Rick about Carl anymore. You don’t say his name. You don’t talk about his death.”

“Or what? You’ll fucking muzzle me?” He smirks.

Michonne cocks her head at him. “No. I think you’d like it too much.” She retrieves his food from the floor. Nothing’s spilled- she knows better than to waste food- but the tray is a mess. She holds it out of his reach. “I was thinking a more permanent solution. Siddiq’s getting the hang of things pretty fast. Knows his way around a neck now, thanks to you. I’m sure he could find a way to keep you nice and quiet.” She shrugs and shoves the tray through the opening in the bars.

“Cute threat,” Negan mutters around a mouthful of beans.

She shrugs. “I like that one. Probably have to do it while Rick’s away, though. He won’t think it’s humane. Me? I think it would be better for everyone.” She turns to leave. “Or we could just start skipping meals until you’re fit to be around other people. Rick won’t be able to come visit anymore, of course. It’ll be me and a few others. Drop your shit off and go. No little chats. No new books. You can have fun talking to yourself. Up to you, really.”

He doesn’t say anything else as she leaves. She considers it a win.

* * *

Michonne finds Rick in the bathroom one night after hearing the low buzz through the door. For a single hilarious moment, she thinks that maybe he’s borrowed her vibrator, but then she nudges the door open and sees him with the electric razor in hand and his long curls shorn over the marble sinktop and the floor. Irrationally, she feels a stab of sadness- she loves those curls, loves carding her hands through them when he lays his head in her lap, loves sinking her fingers into them and stroking as they kissed, loves tugging them when they’re in bed together and hearing him moan low and deep in his throat in response.

His hair looks a mess now, all uneven where he can’t reach or see in the back, longer pieces standing out amid sections that are buzzed short. She’s about to ask why, but she catches sight of his face and stops short.

There’s a single tear clinging to his eyelashes and threatening to drip down his face like heavy morning dew on a blade of grass. He looks embarrassed, confused, shaky, and there’s something else there too, something that lets her know she should tread lightly if she wants to hear the story.

“Can I?” she asks, reaching out for the trimmer. It’s still buzzing in his hand, making him look even shakier.

Wordlessly, he nods, head ducked, and lets her take it in her own hand. He sinks onto the lid of the toilet with her gentle, guiding hand on his shoulder, and she feels the tremor run beneath his skin when she sets the trimmer to his head.

“It’s been a long time,” she notes, working carefully around his ears where his hair is still long in places.

The breath he draws was shaky, uneven. “Since we first came here.”

She remembers. Since she’d first met him at the prison, his hair had never been cut, just left to grow longer and longer until it could touch his shoulders when it was wet. When they’d come to Alexandria, he’d shaved off the impressive beard he’d acquired on the road and let his hair be trimmed just a little by-

“Jessie,” Michonne murmurs, and she feels him tense. What had happened to her, to her children- they don’t like to talk about it, to think about it. It’s rare these days, but sometimes Michonne will startle awake from nightmares of Carl’s ruined eye, of Rick’s pale, terrified face, of Jessie’s wails as she was torn apart, as her youngest son was killed in front of her. Of Ron with the blade of Michonne’s own katana through his chest.

“Yeah,” Rick answers quietly.

They’re quiet again for a minute, and then he manages to find his voice again.

“I didn’t- Carl didn’t ever want to cut his hair. Didn’t want anyone else to do it.” Michonne watches in the mirror as that stubborn teardrop finally makes its way down his cheek. “I knew why. I knew. So I never pushed it.”

She can sense that he wants to say more. She squeezes his shoulder comfortingly, and the breath shudders out of him in a long, shaky gust. “Why didn’t he?”

Tears patter down his face like rain now, a downpour. “Lori- Lori used to- to cut his hair. And mine.”

Oh.

The razor in her hand and the shorn hair dusting Rick’s shoulders feels different now, heavy with meaning. It’s rare for Rick to talk about Lori. It isn’t for a lack of caring, that much she knows. It’s the same reason that she rarely brings up Andre or Mike or Andrea- some wounds never quite heal all the way, and they’re best left alone lest they be reopened.

“When I let Jessie cut my hair, I thought- I thought it meant something. That I was moving on. That I was ready.” Rick surprises her by chuckling, just a little, at himself. “I cried when she did it. Felt like the biggest idiot in the world, a grown man crying over a haircut.” He meets her eyes in the mirror, teary blue locked onto warm brown. “Guess I’m still kind of an idiot.”

She smiles, sad and sweet all at once, and shakes her head. “Only sometimes.” She runs her fingers through his hair, checking how even it is. It feels good under her palm, soft and fuzzy. He looks good too, looks beautiful, red-rimmed eyes and all. “How’s that look?”

He does the same thing as her, running his hands over it and tilting his head to the side to inspect it. The smallest smile tugs at his lips. “Looks good,” he says, and then his eyes met hers again, uncertain and insecure in a way that makes her heart ache. “Do you-”

“I like it,” she promises him, because she really, really does.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and there’s a pleased blush coloring his cheeks that she hasn’t seen in weeks.

* * *

Maggie’s been distant since the end of the war, hasn’t set foot in Alexandria, like the whole place has been tainted by Negan’s continued presence there, even if he’s out of sight. Rick and Michonne have each gone to visit her once, and she’s been sympathetic but reserved in a way she’s never been with them before.

So it’s a surprise when she arrives at their gates one afternoon- but then Michonne sees her passenger.

Naturally, Enid probably wants to see the place her boyfriend, her best friend, died. See where he’s buried. “Can I- where-” she trails off, her voice thick with emotion, and Michonne’s heart breaks for her.

“The cemetery beside the church.” His grave is marked crudely, like all the others, his name etched in stone with a knife by Rick’s unsteady hands. The girl squeezes Maggie’s hand before walking there alone, long hair flying in her face.

“You’re beginning to show,” Michonne notes with affection. Something like pride radiates from Maggie at the mention.

“I am,” she agrees, smoothing one hand over her stomach. “Don’t know how it happened. I swear I just woke up one day and there he was.”

“ _He_ ,” Michonne repeats, awestruck.

There’s light in Maggie’s eyes for the first time in months. “Siddiq’s been learnin’ how to use Doctor Carson’s equipment. Just found out yesterday.” She beams. “I think I’m going to name him Hershel.”

The name evokes warm memories of a simpler time. Of an old man with a white-as-snow ponytail and a fierce amount of love in his heart. It makes Michonne smile.

“It’s perfect.”

Maggie’s eyes grow solemn after a moment. “How are you?”

The words are so heartbreakingly genuine that Michonne can feel them in her bones. “I…” she sighs. “I’m getting there.”

Maggie surprises her by folding her into her arms, one hand cradling the back of her head. It’s a gesture Michonne didn’t know she needs, and she melts into the other woman.

“I know I’ve been- been cold to you. To Rick.”

“We understand. He does. I do.”

“Now’s not the time for it,” Maggie murmurs. “I never want you to think I’m not with you. Not when you need family.”

_Family_. Despite everything, despite the loss and fracture, that’s still who they are at the core.

“I want to see him. If that’s alright.” Maggie pulls away, eyes wet and matching Michonne’s.

She nods, laces their fingers together as they walk toward the church. When they get there, they see two figures at Carl’s grave and stop short, giving them privacy.

“-cared about you. I’m sure you know that,” Rick is saying quietly. Enid’s shoulders are shaking.

“I wish I could have- could have seen him. One last time. He wouldn’t have wanted me to, but I wish I had.” She dissolves into quiet tears, and Rick pulls her into her arms as she crumples, holding her the same way Michonne has seen him hold Carl. He glances up after a moment to see Maggie and Michonne there, nods that it’s okay for them to come in.

They don’t linger much longer. Instead, Rick invites them in to stay. Enid hovers awkwardly for a moment by the stairs, too afraid to ask, but Rick knows.

“You can go up to his room if you want. There’s- there’s a photo he took of the two of you. On his wall. If you want it.”

“You look good,” he rasps out to Maggie when Enid disappears upstairs.

Maggie takes him in her arms, strokes through his newly short hair like a doting sister. “You look like hell.” That makes him laugh, a knee-jerk reaction that sounds like a sob, and she holds him tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her neck.

“Don’t do that now,” she replies. “That’s not why I’m here.”

All in all, it’s a good visit. Rick’s eyes get wet when Maggie tells him the baby’s name. Enid makes her way downstairs as evening falls, the photo of her and Carl held gently in her hands like it’s a precious stone.

They stay the night in Michonne’s old bedroom, and when they leave in the morning, it’s with hugs and love in their eyes, and both Michonne and Rick feel lighter. There are still stones weighing them down, piled onto their chests and crushing the air from their lungs, but it feels like a few have fallen away, and they start to remember how to breathe. 

* * *

She doesn’t trust Negan for anything, so the next time Rick goes to drop off a meal for him, she goes with him. She lingers upstairs, unseen and unheard but listening intently.

“Rick! About fucking time you showed up, I was about to start a damn prison riot down here. That guy you’ve been sendin’ to drop off my meals ain’t much of a chatterbox. I missed you. Fuck- the hell did you do to your hair? I liked it better long. Not that you don’t still look pretty as a goddamned peach-”

“It’s barely dawn. I’m surprised you’re even awake.” Michonne smiles at the playful barb in Rick’s voice.

“Yeah, well,” Negan mutters, “can’t be sleepin’ in all fucking day. Takes the fun right outta the afternoon nap, you know?” There’s a pause, and then: “Eggs, huh? These over easy or over hard?”

“Try one and find out.”

After a moment’s pause, Negan hums in satisfaction. “Over easy. My kind of man.”

There’s a scrape of metal on cement as Rick pulls up his chair.

“Your girlfriend stopped by the other day,” Negan says. “Handed my ass to me. And I’m not a man whose ass is easily handed to him, as you already know.”

“That right?”

“Yep. Pretty damn pathetic that you gotta get your ‘ol lady to duke it out with me for you.”

Michonne’s hackles raise, but Rick’s tone doesn’t shift.

“I think she knew it’d be more convincing coming from her.”

“She’s a real piece of work. You’re just two fucking peas, huh?”

“We are.” The smile in Rick’s voice makes Michonne’s shoulders relax.

“She’s a real badass. She ride you real hard in bed, Rick? Bet she gives it to you real good. Makes you beg. I know just how fucking sweet you sound when you beg.”

“Alright, enjoy your breakfast.”

“What, I hit too close to home, Rick? I did, didn’t I? I bet she bends you over and spanks that tight little ass of yours until it’s red as a tomato.”

“I’ll be seein’ you, Negan.”

When he comes up the stairs, he looks almost amused, which is an improvement in her book.

“Got him to change topics, at least.” Rick slides and arm around her waist and their foreheads come to rest together instinctively. “Thank you.”

* * *

Rick wraps his arms around her from behind while she’s brushing her teeth, the scent of spearmint invading the air. His beard tickles her neck as he moves her hair to one shoulder and kisses down the other.

“You’re gonna make me spit foam,” she tries to warn him, but it comes out thick and garbled, and they both start laughing. The moment she rinses her mouth, Rick’s lips are on hers.

It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It doesn’t have to- they kiss all the time. Let it be known that Rick Grimes is never one to skimp on foreplay. But tonight, there’s something hungry in his kisses that hasn’t been there in a while and it’s making her feel warm and lightheaded.

She’s careful not to rush him as they make their way into bed, drawing out the kissing and undressing with a slowness that would surely drive her mad if she wasn’t being rewarded with his soft, almost agonized moans breathed directly in her ear.

“ _Michonne_ ,” he groans out, and between the honey-sweet way he says her name and the hot, hard press of his cock against her stomach, she can _feel_ herself getting wetter.

It’s the first time she’s felt him get hard in a long while- _too_ long, and before he can stop her, she’s got him on his back, kissing down his throat to his chest.

“Mich- _ahh, Michonne-_ ” he moans when she circles one pert, pink nipple with her thumb before kissing her way down to his stomach, nuzzling affectionately along the sparse treasure trail of hair below his navel.

He says her name again, this time pleading, one loving hand reaching down to cup her cheek.

“You don’t- you don’t have to do that.”

Sometimes he’s so ridiculous and sweet and truly, at times, a bit stupid, that it makes her want to laugh.

_You don’t have to do that._ Isn’t that what she’s been telling him every night he’s kissed her neck and made her come over and over on his fingers? Every night he’s buried that pretty face between her thighs and eaten her as reverently as if she was his last meal?

It’s been a long time since she’s had the pleasure of returning the favor, and now, with his thick, dripping cock just inches from her lips, she can feel her mouth watering.

In lieu of answering him directly, she ducks her head and presses a lingering kiss to the swollen head, lapping at the wet tip and smirking against the sensitive skin when she hears him draw a shuddering breath above her. She glances up, and he meets her eyes as if possessed by her.

“I _want_ to, Rick.” She gives his length a slow, luxurious lick, and he whimpers while he fists the bedsheets, head thrown back onto the pillows and muscles straining. “I’ve missed this.” She takes the head between her lips, bobs shallowly once just to feel the shudder that runs down his spine like a live wire.

It doesn’t take long before he’s pleading, tugging her up.

“Please, _please_ , I need-” his words get lost between kisses, and then they both get lost in each other’s bodies, hands tangled into hair and roaming down backs and over chests. By the time he’s rolled a condom on, his face is flushed and his eyes are hooded with unabashed lust.

They both make a near-agonized sound when she seats herself in his lap and sinks down onto him, his face buried in the crook of her neck and her hands cupping the back of his neck, unwilling and unable to let go.

It doesn’t last long- it was never going to, not this time when it’s been so long since they’ve been intimate together like this, not with how close Rick had been to the brink before he’d even gotten inside of her. It doesn’t matter- he feels like heaven inside of her and around her, his mouth alternating between whispering worshipful praises into her skin and kissing every bit of warm flesh he can reach. Even as he comes, moaning and crying out her name, he’s rocking into her, one hand between their bodies to rub her aching clit. He collapses back onto the pillows, gazing up at her, sated and full of love and lust, as she rides him to her own finish.

It’s only afterward, when they’re both tangled together and basking in the afterglow that they realize how loud they had just been.

“We’re lucky we didn’t wake Judith up,” Rick notes.

“We’re lucky that Carol moved to the Kingdom. I can just see her the next morning at breakfast with that smile on her face. You know the one.”

She feels Rick grin against her shoulder where he’s been lazily kissing up her arm. “Oh, I know the one.” There’s something in his voice- laughter, _joy_ , that’s fighting tooth and nail to break through. All she wants is for him to be able to really feel it again, even just for a second.

She rolls over, and they naturally pull each other into an embrace, foreheads almost touching as they share the one pillow that they didn’t knock off the bed.

“You okay?” he asks, because that’s what they do. She remembers this song and dance, and though they haven’t done it in a while, it feels like coming home.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, knitting their fingers together in the bare space between them. “I’m okay. I’m getting there.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles, his fingers.

“I’m getting there, too,” he says quietly, answering her unspoken question. “I’m trying.”

When she locks eyes with him, there’s something close to hope swimming in the clear blue depths, and it makes her smile. “I know.”


End file.
